Ice Heart
by NeonRoses
Summary: BBC Sherlock fanfiction. Sherlock and John meet for the first time and an obsession with each other soon develops. School-age AU. Eventual M for Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is my first attempt at writing the Sherlock characters as youngsters. (When I say young, I mean teenage.) Mycroft is only two years older than Sherlock here, which isn't accurate... but anyway. Please review.**

Settling in at this new school wasn't going to be simple. I wasn't going to be able to go home at the end of the day and tell mum and dad how my day had been tedious or fun or informative. No, this was a boarding school. And since my parents came into money it seemed appropriate to send me to a private institution from age sixteen to eighteen.

I like to see myself as quite a down-to-earth kind of guy, not at all pompous or self-obsessed. Sure, I wanted to be a doctor someday, but I would never let my intelligence turn me into a snob. My name's John Watson by the way. And this is how the first day at my new school went...

…

There was that 'old building' smell in the corridors, a mixture of decaying wood, pencil sharpenings and paper. I took care to locate the room I'd be staying in. Apparently, it was room number 221, on the East side of the school – the boy's side. Upon entering the room, I noticed there were four beds. Two boys seemed to be unpacking their cases for the term ahead. One of the boys had mousey-coloured hair and the other had a neat dark brown style.

The mousey boy turned round to look at me with a wide, toothy grin. He was quite handsome, in an endearing way. He had dark puppy-dog eyes and a short nose. He held out his hand for me to shake.

"Hey, I'm Gregory Lestrade. Friends call me Greg. You must be the new kid, yeah? John Watson? We were told to expect ya." He had a Cockney accent.

The other boy turned around with a haughty expression on his face. He was a hell of a lot taller than Greg and I.

"And I'm Mycroft Holmes," he said stiffly. "Do be careful not to muck up my side of the room. I need it in pristine condition this term."

"Oi, it wasn't me who messed up your stuff last time! It was your brother!" Greg retorted defensively. "Where is he anyway?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and shrugged before leaving the room.

I cleared my throat awkwardly a few moments after the tall boy had left. "He seems… weird."

Greg smiled and shook his head. "You think _he's_ weird? Wait till you see his brother. He's the real nutcase here. I don't get to speak to him much, though. All he does is sit around reading, conducting experiments or playing the violin."

"Bit socially awkward then?"

"Yeah, but he's a genius. And mad as a box of frogs."

"I'd, er, better watch out for him then. What's his name?"

"Sherlock Holmes. And don't worry, I'll show you who he is in our next lesson… which is, erm…" Greg consulted his watch, "-in about half an hour!"

…

I loved science lessons. In fact, I thrived in my last school - which specialised in biology. Becoming a doctor in some way, shape or form was important to me. My physical fitness led my parents to think I might join the army. I used to think that was quite an absurd notion. But perhaps not. An army doctor might be just the career I was made for.

I took a seat opposite Greg, who was sitting next to a pretty, petite girl I assumed he had a crush on. He was going bright red, after all. Her name was Molly Hooper according to her workbook, and her pigtails and upturned nose made her look even cuter than she acted. No wonder Greg was babbling on about God knows what. She wasn't my type though. I don't even know if I had a type. People think I'm some kind of womaniser but it's only because I like companionship, and what's wrong with that?

This time, Molly had gone bright red, but it wasn't over Greg. It wasn't over me, either. I turned around to see who she was looking at and that's when I saw him. Sherlock Holmes.

He was tall, like his brother, but much paler and almost ethereal in beauty. I suppose some could say he was so pale that he was almost blue. Not in an ill, malnourished way... but in a_ glowing_ way. His almond-shaped eyes were of the brightest, iciest sky-blue I'd ever seen, and his lips were shaped in a way that made his Cupid's bow very prominent. Beneath a mop of untamed, wavy dark hair, he had a pair of very high and sharp cheekbones. Overall, he was striking. Unusual. Alien. But _striking_ was probably the first word I'd use.

I swallowed thickly and turned back to Greg and Molly, who were still staring at Sherlock with their mouths slightly open like a couple of goldfish. When I looked around the room, it seemed that other students were busy throwing little glances his way too. When I returned my gaze to Sherlock Holmes, however, I found he was looking straight at me with a stare so intense I could have fallen off my seat…


	2. Chapter 2

Every time Sherlock raised his hand to answer a question, the teacher would scan the room of sleepy students – none of whom had their hands up – then would roll his eyes and finally come back to Sherlock.

"Looks like Mr. Holmes is the only one who knows the answer – _again_…"

…

When the class was finally over, I approached Sherlock by his locker, my books pressed tightly to my chest as apprehension welled up inside me.

"Er, hi." _Christ, did I really just say that?_

The boy raised his head and stared at me with that same intent look he'd given me earlier in the classroom.

"What a thrilling conversation starter. Have you got any more?" he asked. His eyebrow quirked, linking in perfectly with his sarcasm.

I was taken aback for a moment by the deepness and silkiness of his voice, but I soon came around.

"I just wanted to say how much I admired your, er, intelligence. I swear I'm great at science too, but you're… well… you're some kind of child prodigy. It's fantastic."

Sherlock waited, his eyes narrowing, seemingly confused at my stream of compliments. He rarely, if ever, received compliments from classmates by the looks of it.

"This is where you're meant to say 'thanks, John'", I prompted, lifting myself up onto the balls of my feet before dropping down again. I always did this when I was nervous.

With a sweeping glance down the corridor behind me, Sherlock turned around hastily and left, his figure disappearing within the crowd.

"Great. Nice to meet you too," I said, before I felt a light tapping on my shoulder. When I turned around I was greeted by the sight of a short, black-haired boy. When I say short, I mean he was about my height – which, yes, is rather short!

At first I was slightly startled – his eyes were of the blackest black and he was about as pale as Sherlock. He had that same intense stare that could bore right through your soul.

"Are you friends with Sherlock Holmes?" he asked in an Irish drawl, his lips turning up into an unnervingly false smile.

"Um, no, I barely know him. I'm new. I'm sharing a room with him and his brother this term, though. Oh, and Gregory Lestr-"

"Don't bother trying to make friends with Sherlock Holmes…" he cut in.

"Excuse me, but I doubt that's any of your business."

"He doesn't have friends, do you wonder why?"

"Er, not particularly. I do have a few other things to be worrying ab-"

"If you ever find yourself wondering what side you want to be on…" He pointed to himself with a manic grin and turned on his heel almost theatrically before skipping off.

_What the bloody hell?_

Looking out of the window, I noticed Greg and Molly walking down the grassy hill outside towards the lake. Usually in a new school, you'd follow the people you knew the best and stay with them, but something made me turn away from the window and walk down the corridor in the direction Sherlock Holmes had gone. I didn't look back.

…

He was standing in our room, his expression cold and detached as he played his violin. The way he delicately dragged the bow across the strings was mesmerising and I found myself unable to take my gaze off him. Well, that was until he clocked eyes with me and said, "Do you realise you're staring?"

"I… what… oh God, sorry…"

"No, it's alright."

"Really? I just-"

"It's fine. It's…" He appeared to struggle to find an appropriate word, "it's _nice_ to have someone listen to me play."

"Well, you're a great musician. I'm surprised you don't have an audience piling up outside the room to listen."

He snorted. "Why would they? I'm exactly not well-liked."

I bit my lip, wondering what the heck to say next. He wasn't exactly a boy of many words.

"So, um, some Irish student came up to me earlier, Sherlock. He was kinda scary, actually. Really weird. And he prances around a lot. Do they have druggies here? Or is it just some kind of sugar high?"

"Ah. That's just my arch-enemy. Jim Moriarty."

"Enemy? What the bloody hell-? So you apparently have no friends but you have an _arch-enemy_? That's not like real life… that's… that's like a storybook or something."

"Is it?"

I looked at him, exasperated. Greg was right. This guy really was an oddball. But something about him just kept drawing me in - this beautiful friendless genius with a violin and an enemy. I was like a moth being led to this extraordinary flame.

I smiled. "Wanna go get something to eat before our next class?"

Sherlock placed his violin down then flopped onto his bed, steepling his white fingers under his chin. "I don't eat on Mondays."

_Great._


	3. Chapter 3

I'd finally managed to drag Sherlock down to the canteen, despite his disgruntled sighs and protests. I bought him a bread roll, much to his annoyance, and he left it uneaten as he took out his magnifying glass and started studying random fingerprints on our table. I put my sandwich down and leaned in, lowering my voice, "People are staring. Now is not the time for scientific experiments."

Sherlock ignored me, moving the tool across the flat of the table as he documented whatever the hell he was documenting.

"She's hot…" I said, deliberately trying to coax Sherlock out of his studies.

It worked. He looked up. "Hmm? What?"

I pointed. "Her. That blonde girl over there. She's gorgeous. What do you reckon?"

Sherlock didn't seem overly interested, but he lazily turned round and looked at the girl I was talking about. He rolled his eyes and returned his gaze to me. "She's dull, just like everybody else here."

"So you don't have an interest in any of the girls here? None at all?"

"No."

I waited for a moment. "Any of the boys, then?"

Sherlock huffed impatiently, throwing the magnifying glass down. "What point are you trying to make, John?"

"Nothing. Nothing. It's fine. It's all fine." I put my hands up as if surrendering, then pushed back my chair and got up to leave. It was only then, that somebody from Jim Moriarty's table shouted over, "Oi Holmes, is that your boyfriend? Is your boyfriend leavin' ya? Surprised he coped with ya for that long!"

Another boy shouted, "Freak!"

Sherlock cast his eyes downwards, a slight blush of humiliation rising in his pale cheeks. I grit my teeth together in anger and took Sherlock by the arm, dragging him away from the bullying bastards, my angry stare fixed on them the whole time as they burst into more laughter. Jim sat quietly in the middle of his friends, a smirk of satisfaction most certainly gracing his lips.

…

"Do people always treat you like that?" I asked, once we'd arrived back in our room. Neither Greg nor Mycroft had got back yet and I was thankful for that. I wanted time alone with Sherlock – to discover his thoughts, his feelings. He seemed so cut off from the world. But clearly he wasn't completely devoid of emotion - he had seemed a_ little bit_ hurt by the comments. There had to be a heart in there somewhere… somewhere behind the shimmering brilliance of his brain.

"People do little else," was his reply. He was sat on the edge of his bed, watching me. I felt awkward, stifled. I didn't know why. I found myself tugging at the collar of my school shirt.

"They're jealous. They must be. I mean, none of them are as amazing as you."

Sherlock flinched a little. "Amazing? W-Why are you saying these things?"

"What things?"

"Compliments. You're complimenting me. Why?"

"Because..." I was looking at him. He was looking directly back at me. How did he manage to make this so intense? Whenever I looked at anyone else, it was standard looking. But this… this was different. Those cold, icy eyes… they were curious. He really didn't understand why I was being nice. "...Because I like you. Because I wouldn't mind being your, I don't know… your friend."

"Friend?"

"Yes. You don't have to pull that face. It's good to have a friend."

He didn't argue, but he didn't seem that excited about the prospect either. He offered me a small half-smile. For him, that was positively unusual – but I liked it. I smiled back as he continued to look at me curiously, his lips parting as he did so. He was concentrating on something and I found myself feeling emotionally drawn to his strangeness and his beauty - like a magnet. It felt as though I were under a spell... utterly charmed by this extraordinary individual. I almost didn't notice Mycroft enter the room. He prodded us with his umbrella and his haughty voice broke the silence. "Am I interrupting a staring contest or are you two rehearsing for this year's production of Romeo and Juliet? I cannot tell."

I tore my eyes away and rubbed the back of my neck, embarrassed. I felt exposed. Christ knows why. Sherlock had only been _looking_ at me.

...

I could understand why he didn't make friends easily. It was clear to see he wasn't a social butterfly. But something, _something,_ told me that knowing him and being close to him would benefit me. And it would benefit him…


End file.
